


This Desert Rose

by almaasi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Crowley's Century-Long Nap (Good Omens), Desert, Dress-Wearing Crowley (Good Omens), F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Harems, Historical, Illustrated, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Nonbinary Aziraphale (Good Omens), Nonbinary Crowley (Good Omens), Other, Pining, Resolved Romantic Tension, Scent Kink, Scents & Smells, Second first kiss, Sharing a Bed, but not really as it turns out, which is definitely a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 05:50:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20559284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almaasi/pseuds/almaasi
Summary: “But, Crowley, what if— A hundred years— What if I’m still not ready...?”“I’ll wait.”This veiled woman of the desert seems intimately familiar. It's not the serpentine saunter, nor the husky voice, nor the inclination to spontaneously fake a romantic relationship to protect an old friend that gives Crowley away. Simply put: Aziraphale would know that smoky scent anywhere. And he has never been more tempted in his life.





	This Desert Rose

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by Lois, Katie, Amara, and Libby.
> 
> He/him pronouns are used to refer to Crowley, including when he defines himself (temporarily) as a woman. There is a zero-percent chance any of this is historically accurate. Thankfully angels and demons seem to speak fluent Anachronism, and canon is a fictive pick-n-mix, so I figure I'm fine. :P
> 
> I'd had this storyline in mind for a Destiel fic for maybe... five years? And it never came together properly until Crowley and Aziraphale exploded onto the top of my list of obsessions and fit the idea perfectly. I am pleeeeazzzzed. I hope you enjoy ♥

  


··· ◈ ···

This desert rose (e-ley, e-ley)  
Each of her veils, a secret promise  
This desert flower (e-ley, e-ley)  
No sweet perfume ever tortured me more than this  
— Sting, _Desert Rose_

··· ◈ ···

  


  


··· ◈ ···

  


“But, Crowley, what if— A hundred years— What if I’m still not ready...?”

“I’ll wait.”

  


··· ◈ ···

  


**PERSIA, 1787**  
(6 hours earlier)

  


It had been a scratch under six hundred years since Aziraphale last set foot in Egypt, sixteen-and-a-half years since he visited the beach, and just a few centuries shy of six _thousand_ years since he’d decided he hated deserts, and only now did he remember why. He didn’t like getting sand between his toes.

“_Please_, watch the robes— My good lady, unhand me! There’s no need for such brutality, I am on my _way_! Aah!” Aziraphale toppled into the sand, feeling the bite of sun-scorched particles on his palms. He was wrenched back to his feet by his shoulder, and he huffed out, “Oh, really!”

“[Shut up and keep walking],” the woman in a blood-red veil beside him said, gripping his robe with the strength of three men. She uttered to her companion beside her, “[He talks too much. Zaynab won’t like him.]”

“You know, I really don’t have the faintest idea what you’re saying,” Aziraphale uttered, stumbling over a rock, then descending a sand dune in a rush of fits and starts, before gushing down the side with the two women keeping him upright, apparent experts in sand-gliding. “And where are we going, anyway? There’s nothing out here but sun and sand, and if we’re not careful, a slow and painful discorporation, and if I have anything to say about it, madams, I’d much prefer if— Oh. Hello.”

They stopped at the peak of a dune. From the toes of Aziraphale’s battered sandals, two streaks of sand whispered away, hastening down the decline before them. At the bottom of the yellow ravine was a gloriously verdant oasis, with a lake of dark green water, and thriving palm trees erupting from its banks. Birds sang; insects chirped; a fish broke the surface of the pool, chased by a pair of young goats who gamboled at the water’s edge. There were tents down there.

“My my my,” Aziraphale said quietly, unresisting as the two women guided him down the slope, walking on a zig-zaggy path, which was more stable than it looked. “This must be the place I’ve been looking for. Perhaps I ought to thank you. But you wouldn’t know a thanks from a threat, now, would you, so there’d hardly be much point.”

They reached the base of the valley, and Aziraphale was manhandled across the low plane of grass and other shrubs. There were gorgeously shiny Arabian horses grazing here and there. A faintly familiar scent hung in the air, like cinnamon woodsmoke. He looked around as he went; every direction he turned his head he saw women writing, talking, collecting water, rotating meat over a spitfire. They were all brown-skinned and wore colourful floor-length full-sleeved robes not unlike his own, but had their hair covered – not completely, but their veils were pinned halfway back from their hairlines, showing off a few inches of glossy black locks. They were as curious about Aziraphale as Aziraphale was about them. Yet, as they looked his way, their hands swept to their faces, and they each pulled up a veil across their nose and mouth, as if Aziraphale was a foul airborne disease and that fine mesh fabric would save them from him.

“[In here],” a woman said at Aziraphale’s back.

He was led into a huge maroon canvas tent, which was held up tall by two thick poles in the middle, and more all around the edges, making a softly-flapping octagon. The exact centre of the tent featured a rock fire, smouldering red-hot, giving off visible waves of heat.

There were guards at the entrance, holding spears, looking cautiously curious. On the far side of the tent, a woman in purple robes languished on a pile of pillows, popping grapes into her mouth. She sat up and drew her veil like the others, looking at Aziraphale.

“[Found him wandering the dunes,]” one woman said.

The other held up Aziraphale’s satchel, which had been stolen from him. “[He was carrying books.]”

The bag hit the floor and four books toppled out. Aziraphale yelped and dropped to a crouch, hurriedly scooping the books back into the bag.

When he looked up to complain, his chin was taken by the woman in purple. She was tall and imposing, and he felt inclined to stand, drawn up by her touch.

Her eyes were piercing black, rimmed with kohl, and from her discerning squint, Aziraphale supposed she was trying to ascertain if he was a threat or not.

“I – mean – you – no – harm,” Azirapale said slowly, his free hand open in surrender as the woman released his chin. “I’m here on a mission of goodwill. Bringing peace and whatnot. I have no intention of bothering you, or anyone here.”

The woman in purple – the leader, if Aziraphale had to guess – turned to one of her guards and babbled something sharp and demanding. The guard left, taking one of Aziraphale’s capturers with her.

The leader held Aziraphale’s eyes for a moment longer, then bent to pick up the bag. She put it on a round, tiled table, and started to pick out his belongings one-by-one.

“Ah... That’s— Please, be careful— That one’s very old— Bit of light reading, you see, didn’t want to get stuck in the desert with nothing to do— Do you read English? You’re reading. Alright, then. You can borrow it if you like. Just for a little bit. I would like it back sometime, however.”

“[Talks a lot, doesn’t he],” the leader uttered with a deft glance to her other guard. The guard seemed to smile below her veil, eyes wrinkled.

Aziraphale felt a soft gush of hot desert air come in behind him, and he stepped aside, apologising as a crowd of people came in in single file. Five women, six, ten...

Aziraphale backed up into the tent, uttering nervous phrases like “I shouldn’t like to be in your way,” and “I hope I’m not intruding,” even though he was, and he knew it. “Then again you did bring me here, so if you don’t want me here, I can’t say I won’t have questions.”

Now twenty-five women crowded the entrance, young and old, all in red or magenta or cobalt-blue or orange, all looking at Aziraphale with interest in their eyes. Those eyes were all he could see, besides the skin of their hands, as lightweight, sleek fabric draped them all, strips of jewels over their noses. Murmurs flooded through the group, and the books were pried up and distributed, pulled open and investigated. Aziraphale started to feel his skin prickle, as there was something a little over-eager about the way some of the women looked at him. He didn’t like being looked at like that.

The leader swept a hand up: a summoning gesture. The guards at the door parted the flaps, and in sauntered the only figure in black. She moved with slow snaps of her hips, side-to-side, her robes tight of torso but long of train. The smoky flavour in the air doubled as she closed in. There was something intimately familiar around her, but how could that be? Her entire face was covered by a long black veil, bare forearms tanned; she eased the crowd aside with the backs of her hands.

“Well-well-well,” the woman purred, as she paused at the forefront of the crowd. “Fancy this.”

“Oh, you speak English! Wonderful!” Aziraphale cried. “Would you kindly please tell these women to be very, very careful with those books – and if they’re going to suggest that I become part of their little harem, they’d better think again. I don’t appreciate how they’re looking at me.”

The woman in black showed a hint of a grin behind her veil. She turned her head and conveyed something to the others in Persian, in a brash sort of way. Raucous laughter burst from the group, and Aziraphale even worked up a grin, but it died quickly, as he didn’t know what was so funny.

“What did you tell them?” he asked the translator.

“You,” the woman said amusedly. She began to stalk closer, reaching out a hand to finger the embroidery on his robe’s neckline. “You think this is a harem.”

“Well, isn’t it? A lot of women out here in the desert, isn’t that, technically, by definition – although I suppose, if there’s no men at all, ‘zenana’ would be a better—”

Aziraphale stopped.

He took a small breath. He knew that smoky scent. Now it made sense that he’d been breathing it in.

“Crowley,” he whispered.

Crowley’s eyes flicked to meet Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale couldn’t see their yellow tint behind the veil but he could see enough to know they were making eye contact.

“What are you doing here,” Aziraphale asked under his breath, as his heartbeat picked up. “Why are you _here_, where _I’ve_ been sent to bring peace? And come to think of it, why are you dressed as a woman?”

“_Dressed_ as a woman?” Crowley drew his head back a notch with a scoff. “I am a woman, angel. At least at the moment.”

“Haven’t they noticed? That you’re— You know. Not—”

“Not what?” Crowley tilted his head, a thin note of threat in his voice.

Aziraphale gulped. “N-No, nothing, never mind. My mistake. Wouldn’t want to blow your cover.”

Crowley gave Aziraphale a long, hard stare. He turned his head for a moment, listening to the whispers of the women. Then he chuckled. “They want you to stay for dinner.”

“Dinner?” Aziraphale brightened up. “Dinner sounds delightful.”

Crowley repeated this to the women and they cheered, books and hands in the air. They immediately turned to each other, talking quickly and excitedly, poring over the books, then snatching glances back in Crowley and Aziraphale’s direction.

“Come on, let’s sit,” Crowley drawled, taking Aziraphale by the arm and angling him towards the mountain of bejewelled pillows. He tossed a few tasselled ones aside, then craned backwards – “Ahh?” – until he fell with a satisfied, “uhhh.”

Aziraphale sat primly beside him, hands on his thighs. “Crowley,” he said seriously, watching the women celebrate and carry off their new books. “What’s really going on here?”

Crowley shrugged, kicking his bare feet up, lounging back and popping a grape in his mouth, then offering the silver tray to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale turned down the grapes, but then snatched one as Crowley moved the tray away, so Crowley put the tray down between them.

“It’s all my fault, really,” Crowley said carelessly, letting one thin and hairy leg stretch out from under his robe, foot hanging off the daybed. “I tempted a wife to leave her husband, then tempted the daughter to follow, and then the daughter’s friend, then _her_ mother, so on and so forth, and within a month the whole village had divided in two. You wouldn’t believe how helpless men are without their women, angel. You’d almost think God created men wrong, then had a better idea.”

“Al-most,” Aziraphale pondered.

“The village was half-empty, and all the men were doing perfectly horrible things without my help, so I decided to go where the fun was. I’ll tell you, angel, these women are teaching each other things. Reading. Writing. Doing _arithmetic_. Even _I_ learned a thing or two, and you know how I can barely count my scales for peanuts.”

“And all this education is the work of the devil, I take it?”

“Oh, no, no,” Crowley uttered. “Once they left the village I didn’t do a thing. In fact I barely did anything to begin with, they were just waiting for an excuse to leave and carry on tending to their lives in private. I’m just along for the ride.” He tipped back his head and purred a note as he dropped a grape into his mouth from a crooked twig. His stubbled throat was exposed under his veil for a moment, and Aziraphale saw his Adam’s apple bob, just once.

“Surely they’ve noticed,” Aziraphale said, shaking his head. “They _have_ to have noticed.”

“Noticed what?”

Aziraphale frowned a little. He wondered if he was making incorrect assumptions again. He and Crowley were similar in many ways; hidden wings, magic powers, not much in the way of gender. But Aziraphale was very set in his ways when it came to his appearance: he found something he liked and stuck to it. He hadn’t changed his hair since he came into existence, and he wasn’t about to start now. Crowley, however, did something new every season of every year. He rolled with the times and then out of them again, never keeping much from before. He’d worn robes before, and armour, and dresses, and he’d _always_ sashayed around the way he did, but dressing in whatever garb he fancied at the time was a very different thing to dressing for the apparent purpose of hiding amongst women who thought he was also a woman. But... demon or not... maybe Crowley wasn’t playing tricks. Perhaps he simply _was_ a woman now. Aziraphale just didn’t understand how that could happen to a creature of angelic stock. A woman was such a human thing to be.

“Ah, dinner,” Crowley said, popping upright. “Come on.” He beckoned, and Aziraphale stood, following him to where the women began entering with plates and plates of food. “We’d better make ourselves useful, Zaynab isn’t a big fan of slackers.”

Aziraphale hadn’t so much as opened his mouth to ask what to do before Crowley had gone ahead, taking plates from women and moving to lay them upon the patterned rug near those plush pillow sofas. He muttered to his lady friends in Persian, making one girl laugh brightly. Crowley knelt, and took plate after plate from whoever handed them to him, and he lay them in a circle around himself.

“[Here, take this],” one of the leader’s guards said to Aziraphale, one hand wrapped around her spear. From the proffered food and forward urging, Aziraphale gathered he was to take the dish. He moved slowly and then – unsure – he handed it to Crowley.

“Sit, angel,” Crowley said, as the last of the trays went down. “Sit by me. Don’t talk too much. And definitely don’t stare at anyone.”

Crowley stood, then carefully edged his feet around a lavish platter of roasted meat and fluffy greens, then knelt again, black folds of his robe all around him. Azirapale took a cushion like the other women, and sat cross-legged, looking hopefully at the feast.

The leader took her seat upon the throne of pillows, legs to the side, her eyes cast around the circle of women. Her gaze fell to Crowley, then, finally, Aziraphale.

A quiet rush of uncertainty whispered its way around the circle. The women looked to the angel, then their leader.

The leader held up a hand for silence. Then, slowly, she reached to her ear and unclipped her veil, revealing her nose and mouth. Her lips were as brown as her skin, and she spoke only a single word... Aziraphale didn’t know he knew any Persian at all, but the moment she gave her command, he knew what she’d said: “Eat.”

The women rushed to let down their own veils, and they reached for food, gossiping and laughing already. A warm murmur filled the tent. Even the guards had sat down, though they kept their spears across their laps.

“You should try the plantain,” Crowley said, pointing to a dish on the other side of the circle. “I made that one.”

“You cook?” Aziraphale raised his eyebrows.

Crowley pursed his lips and shrugged. “I prevent things from remaining raw. Just so you know, angel, you’re having yourself a very lucky evening. Zaynab doesn’t see you as dangerous.” Crowley reached forward and took the empty clay bowls someone handed him. He dished up some food by hand and handed it straight to Aziraphale. “And it’s a good thing too. I’ve seen what this lot do to people they see as threats.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale took his dinner bowl gratefully, prying a soft, oily corner of a flatbread into his miraculously-clean fingers. “Perhaps I don’t want to know.”

“You don’t.” Crowley moved to unhitch his own veil – and Aziraphale tensed, eyes darting around, sure someone would _notice_ that sharp jaw and the facial hair, even if his yellow eyes were still covered. It didn’t matter that Crowley wasn’t actually a man; he certainly _looked_ like one to humans, and in Aziraphale’s experience, humans didn’t much like to see men dressed as women except in a Shakespeare play. And even then some people had Issues.

Yet...?

Crowley took a big bite of crispy spiced meat, chewing with a scrap of lettuce hung from his lip. He nudged the young girl beside him and uttered something with a smile, and she smiled back, giving a friendly reply.

Aziraphale was snapped away from his observations by the burst of flavour on his tongue. “Oh, I say,” he gushed, pushing more food into his mouth. “Oh, wonderful. Wonderful.” So crispy. So tender. So fresh and nourishing. He could taste every spice individually, yet they meshed so well that he didn’t even know what he was eating.

“Look,” Crowley said, eventually turning back to Aziraphale. “I know what you’re getting at, so _very_ tactfully. Some people don’t much care what I look like, angel. You give them a few quick personable impressions, they watch how you treat their kids, and if you’re nothing like their lazy and abusive husband, they’ll let almost anything slide.”

“Is that so.”

Crowley shrugged. “I may have also made it abundantly clear I have absolutely no interest whatsoever in their daughters.”

“Ah. That ought to do it.”

“That’s why they’re even letting _you_ in here, besides,” Crowley went on, sucking up some sauce that dripped down his chin with a graceless, breathy _scwhhhp_.

“I beg your pardon?”

“They think you like men.”

“They think—”

“Like I said, you make a quick impression. And you just give off that _vibe_. And it’s not like it matters what they think of your preferences, anyhow,” Crowley muttered. “You don’t like _anyone_.”

Aziraphale bristled. “I don’t not like _anyone_.”

“Name one person you love.”

“Well, God, I suppose—”

“You know what I mean, angel. _In_ love.”

Aziraphale scowled, ripping his flatbread in half. “I don’t know why you have to go around telling people things that aren’t true.”

“Demon.”

“Besides that.”

“Kind of a bastard.”

“Besides _that_.”

“Angel, right now telling them you like men is the only thing that’s gonna keep you from getting killed. That’s why.”

“Getti— I’m sorry?”

“Told you. You won’t like what they do to threats. They fought hard to get where they are now and so help them, Aziraphale, for the sake of their daughters, they’re keeping it this way.”

If Aziraphale wasn’t so keen on trying what looked like tomato couscous and olives, the thought of being discorporated over somebody thinking he fancied a sixteen-year-old girl might’ve just made him go off his food. (He’d never actually gone off his food yet. Today was not that day. He did feel adequately nauseous for about ten seconds, however.)

He polished off a bowl, then another, then finally got his hands on the plantain, at which point his shoulders sank down, eyes rising in exaltation as the sweetness kicked his palate to life. “You never told me you cooked, Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly, eyes set lovingly on his third helping, which he unwrapped from its burnt green leaf and placed in his mouth. “You do surprise me sometimes.”

Crowley gave Aziraphale a long, somewhat affectionate look. “So do you.”

Azirpahale met his eyes, not quite seeing eyes, but a lively flick of attention behind the thin black fabric. “I do?”

“Showing up here. Haven’t seen you in months, and here you are, thousands of miles away from where I left you. Smack-bang, right where I am.”

“I should like to think I’ve been sent to straighten out whatever wrongdoings you’ve been busy committing.”

“Or you’re just here to see me and you’ve invented an elaborate ruse to get yourself here.”

“I’ve done nothing of the sort. That would be lying.”

“Would it?” Crowley gave a sly grin. “Or would it just be a _reason_?”

Aziraphale held his gaze, then glanced away. He wasn’t sure how to respond. Something strange stirred inside him, a little twinge of doubt. He didn’t know why he was here, not really. He’d felt an ineffable draw to this part of the world, and he’d arrived in want of purpose. What if he _had_ come just to see an old friend? Crowley didn’t seem to be sowing any discord at all, just getting along happily. Maybe there’d been a few murders along the way, but when weren’t there murders, these days?

There were no napkins around, so Aziraphale surreptitiously conjured a handkerchief into existence, and pulled it from his sleeve to dab his mouth. He startled when he saw there was a young woman staring at him, a few places down in the circle.

Aziraphale gave a friendly wave with his handkerchief, letting it flop to and fro. He smiled when the girl turned to her neighbour and whispered to her, then they both turned to look back at him... expectantly.

“Hello?” he asked.

Crowley glanced up. “What’s going on now?”

“You’ll have to tell me. Why are they looking at me?”

Crowley figured out who he meant, and leaned close to pry in Persian. The girls giggled and whispered back, eyes on Aziraphale.

“Ah.” Crowley sat back, and uttered from the corner of his mouth, “Magic tricks. Not so subtle with your pulling-things-out-of-thin-air act, angel.”

Aziraphale had brightened up and sat tall, stretching out his hands. “I can do a few tricks.”

“Oh, no... no... no,” Crowley complained. “You want to know why I lured you into Shakespeare’s costume room and then immediately left for an Ottoman-infested Crete? This is why. Stop. Stop it. There was no coin in my ear. No. Don’t you dare pull an egg out of my mouthghff—” Crowley spat a hard-boiled quail egg back into Aziraphale’s palm, his eyes searing behind his veil. “Torture _them_, why don’t you.” Crowley shoved Aziraphale’s torso to face the girls. “They like this nonsense.”

Indeed, the girls were bright-eyed and watched with open mouths, and Aziraphale’s audience was growing.

“Daria,” Crowley sighed, “[for the love of discord, don’t encourage him.]”

The girl – Daria – had a beady look in her eye that Aziraphale recognised, presumably an expression she’d picked up from Crowley. She leaned in and asked something with great determination.

Crowley tutted. “She wants you to find coins in her ears.”

“I only have three coins,” Aziraphale uttered, quickly patting his pockets.

“Make more.”

“That’ll use up my miracles.”

“In however many thousands of years, have you ever run _out_ of miracles? Once?”

“Do be quiet, dear,” Aziraphale uttered, leaning forward and pulling one of his three coins from Daria’s ear. He gave it to her, and she leaned closer for more. Aziraphale smiled, finding a coin in her veil, then – “Oh, what’s this?” – another under her bare foot.

Crowley sulked, collecting up the empty bowls people handed him, putting them in a stack.

Aziraphale began finding rocks, a date pip, and a small pencil stub. While he entertained, he asked, “Is this what you’ve been doing all the time you’ve been here, Crowley? Cooking and tidying up after dinner?”

“Pff! Can you blame me? What’s _out_ there, angel? Endless salt desert, discorporation. What’s Down There? Ligur got a new head chameleon. Believe me, you don’t want to know what happened to the last one. I’m staying out of Hell as long as I can help it. So, what’s here? An alright bunch. Not easily swayed to the dark side, so there’s still a challenge in it for me. They’re starting to read English. Now I can tempt them in two languages.”

“Can they understand what we’re saying now?”

“We’re talking too fast. They might catch the occasional word.”

“Is that why they’re all staring at us?”

Crowley looked up, and his snake bones chilled. Every eye was on them, and there was a distinct sting of hostility in the sweltering air that he ought to have noticed earlier.

“No,” Crowley said carefully, as he reached for Aziraphale and pushed down his twisting, conjuring arms. “Watch out, I think you’re in trouble.”

Aziraphale was mentally cataloguing the rest of his pocket contents, but blinked back to reality when he registered Crowley’s words. “Trouble? What did I do wrong?”

Zaynab sat on the edge of her pillow pile, leaning forward, a tenseness to her jaw that showed she really meant business.

“I think,” Crowley said, “if I’m not mistaken,” his hand slid from Aziraphale’s forearm to his wrist, “you’ve been paying a little too much attention to Daria here. She’s quite the little flirt. Don’t know where she picked that up from.”

Daria looked torn. She’d been having a fun time, but she shrank under her elders’ gaze, looking guilty.

“Flirt?! I wasn’t flirting! They’re only magic tricks, I meant nothing by it—” Aziraphale glanced fast between Crowley and Daria and Zaynab. “Really, it was all in good fun, that’s all. Tell them, Crowley!”

Crowley parted his dry lips. “[He’s an idiot, believe me],” Crowley told Zaynab. “[Wouldn’t know what he was doing with a woman even if she arrived with instructions.]”

Somehow that didn’t seem to help.

“[You told us he didn’t like girls],” Zaynab said curtly, as Aziraphale started to sweat. “[You’ve been known to lie, snake. Why do you protect him? Perhaps you’re no better than he is.]”

Crowley made a few nervous “Ah, bah, yes, _but_” noises, waggling a finger. “See. [He doesn’t like girls. The truth is he doesn’t quite like the other option either.]”

Zaynab looked confused.

“[Thing is.]” Crowley gulped. His hand slid into Aziraphale’s hand and held it. “[It’s just me he likes. Old friends.]”

“Crowley, what are you playing at?” Aziraphale hissed, although he clung to Crowley’s hand like a lifeline.

“[I already claimed him],” Crowley said, with some force, although Aziraphale sensed a rush of insecurity bolt through his hand. “[Many years ago].”

An utterance coursed through the tent, some women nodding, as if whatever Crowley said made sense, another few scoffing, like it was ridiculous.

“What are you telling them?” Aziraphale whispered. “Crowley, talk to me.”

“You’re all mine, angel,” Crowley said darkly, turning his head to face Aziraphale. The fingertips of his free hand caressed Aziraphale’s jaw. “Aren’t you?”

Aziraphale’s heart was doing things it had never done before. “I— I— I— C-Crowley, what in Heaven’s name—?”

Crowley shut his eyes, turned his head and gave Aziraphale’s lips a soft kiss. The jewelled lower hem of his veil skimmed the bridge of Aziraphale’s nose.

Aziraphale almost caught fire. He breathed out over Crowley’s mouth, shuddering, wishing he could make proper eye contact through the veil so he’d have real answers. Instead, as their lips parted, his gaze hopped between the vague shapes of Crowley’s eyes, his lips burning. “Crowley,” he whispered, sinking down a little.

“See, that proves it,” Crowley said to their captive audience. “[He likes snakes better than people].”

Daria folded her arms, grumpy. She cast Aziraphale a disappointed look then turned away entirely, talking to a friend. Conversation rolled out in a murmur, then overtook...

Soon, most of the women had lost interest.

Zaynab kept watching them, however.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said once more, eyes not sure where to land.

“Sorry about all that, angel,” Crowley said, head down.

“I dare say you should be! That was a very inappropriate thing to do. I’m flabbergasted you would even try— And in front of so many people, too!”

“Remind me not to save your life next time, then, will you?” Crowley snarled, showing his teeth. “I’ll let them drag you out and throw you into the stoning pit. Sounds wonderful.”

“Oh... I see.”

“Just shut up.” Crowley tossed Aziraphale’s hand away. “I’ve got washing-up to do.” He stood up and took the stack of bowls with him.

Aziraphale sat for a while, stunned. His hand slowly lifted... He touched his lips. He felt the burn of Hellfire upon them. But... the more he felt them, and the more he looked into his heart to understand why he hadn’t pulled away, nor flinched, not once – he began to smile. He lowered his head, and sighed gently.

He glanced up. Zaynab met his eyes from across the tent.

Aziraphale gave her an embarrassed smile. “He’s a wily old thing,” he said, despite knowing Zaynab wouldn’t hear him over the hubbub, and wouldn’t know many of those words. “Always comes up with something when you least expect it. You know, I should really—” Aziraphale pointed towards the tent flaps, through which Crowley had taken the bowls. “Excellent food, your highness. Most excellent.” He got up, bowed, then backed up to the door, looking around in the purple gloom for Crowley.

He found him over by a stone water-well, scrubbing the bowls in a trough.

The last of the ambient daylight put a touch of lilac haze about Crowley’s person as it shone through the black material of his dress. There was something about the way he stood, subdued but never submissive, the way his robes and jewelled veil were teased by the softest breeze... He was elegant in ways no human had ever been. Crowley was a figure from a dream come to life, emerging in the shimmers and reflections of a twilight mirage but somehow real enough to feel the heat of his skin. The scent of him was more potent than the salt desert tang, the warmth of the horses, or the richness of the meal that still hung in the air. That cinnamon smoke enshrouded Aziraphale, drawing him nearer and nearer just to breathe in.

Aziraphale stood by him, not sure what to say.

“Going to stand there all night, are you?” Crowley snapped.

“Oh...” Aziraphale blinked out of his reverie. “No... I suppose not.” He folded up his sleeves, and nudged closer beside Crowley to help with the washing.

It was getting dark out; the sky had bruised, and the black horses were no longer glossy, but had become silhouettes with vague edges, wandering amongst the shrubs. The light from inside the main tent poured out orange and warm, while the other tents were dark, save for a few fiery lanterns here and there, on sticks dug into the ground.

Aziraphale and Crowley worked in silence for a while, clanking dishes together, sloshing soapy water.

“I suppose I ought to say thank you,” Aziraphale said.

“But you won’t,” Crowley said. “Because then one or both of us would have to admit I did a good deed.”

“No, no, of course not,” Aziraphale agreed brusquely. “That would be heinous. Against the demon code, no doubt. You do nothing but evil.”

“The worst evil.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale nodded, miracling the last few bowls clean, and letting Crowley stack them up. “You are temptation incarnate. You lead good people to sin and— And angels to ruin Crowley I don’t know what to _say_; it was wonderful, the whole situation was dreadful, I know, but tell me that kiss wasn’t the least bit nice? Tell me I’m not the only one—”

Crowley pushed a clean, dry finger to Aziraphale’s plump lips. “Not one more word, _angel_,” he growled. “Don’t you dare.”

“But—”

Crowley covered Aziraphale’s mouth completely. “I will throw you in the stoning pit myself. So _shut it_. Understand?”

Aziraphale gulped, nodding, and Crowley released his mouth.

The demon stalked away, a black shape sauntering into the evening shadows, robes a-swish, hips a-sway. Aziraphale watched him go, a not-so-foreign twirl of longing meandering into his heart. He didn’t know what the longing meant, but there was no mistaking it.

“Almighty,” he said aloud, “_is_ this why you brought me here? To this place?” Aziraphale looked up into the sky, seeing a few twinkly stars among the darkening violet. “This must all be part of your great ineffable plan, I take it? A demon who saves an angel’s life, not once, but a dozen times... An angel and a demon who find each other over and over and over again in the farthest reaches of the world, for no obvious reason... It has to mean something. It has to.”

Aziraphale had doubted many a thing in his time. But those doubts always grew from paying close attention to his feelings, and he trusted his feelings as much as he trusted the great, ineffable plan, which was why he often felt torn between desire and duty. If he felt something pleasant when he touched Crowley, breathed his smoke, then that was a feeling he was inclined to embrace rather than deny, at least internally. Even if it _was_ a bad, wrong, imperfect thing for a holy principality to feel.

He touched his lips again.

His eyes turned to the tent into which Crowley had disappeared. A light had come on inside, a flickering flame illuminating the red fabric from within.

Aziraphale made up his mind, and started on his way over.

  


··· ◈ ···

  


Crowley pulled his full veil from atop his head, tired and slow. He saw colour again, finally. His curls fell softly at his back, head tilted as he ran his fingers across his scalp, letting his skin breathe after being trapped under the veil all day. He felt fragile. Fragile and soft... and a bit happy. He didn’t like feeling this way.

He turned to close the tent flap for privacy, only to find Aziraphale pushing the flap wider, peering in with hopeful eyes.

“What do you want, angel,” Crowley uttered. He turned his back and started to undrape his robes, revealing his bare shoulders, swathes of black fabric trailing to the dusty ground.

“I want to know how it felt for you,” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley was glad his face was turned away. “How what felt?”

“The ki—”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, angel, don’t even know why you’re here. Don’t you have some good deed to perform for the enlightenment of humanity?” Crowley let his skirts fall, and he stood in his under-robe, a skimpy frock draped front and back, tied at his shoulders and wrapped under his legs and at his waist.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Aziraphale said, as Crowley heard the shift of fabric, tent flap closing. “I think I might’ve already done it.”

Crowley whipped around. “If you think seducing a demon through acts of utter obliviousness is what you’re calling a _good deed_ these days, then I’m—”

Aziraphale shook his head. “The books, Crowley. I unwittingly brought these people a gift that’ll sustain them in ways we can’t even begin to know. As you’ve said, they were clearly getting on just fine without outside input, but... I’m sure more resources couldn’t hurt. They’ll only grow from here, I have a good feeling.”

“Books...?” Crowley cocked his head. “You aren’t going to fight tooth and wing to get them back?”

Aziraphale drew a brave breath, shoulders and chin rising. “Not this time. I’ve done my duty here. So, I suppose, I’m free to go. Back to England. Back to Heaven. On to my next miracle.”

“Right.” Crowley blinked his yellow eyes, one arm hugging across his middle. “So you’re leaving.”

“Do you think Ms. Zaynab would be so kind as to loan me a horse?”

“Not at night, angel. This desert’s a death trap in the day, heat like that – but at night? Can’t see a damn thing. Dunes shift like anything. You’ll get lost and wake up half-discorporated in an eighteen-foot ditch, crushed under your dead horse.”

“Ah.”

“You’re better off staying,” Crowley said casually, turning away to make his bed. “‘S why I have. Basically trapped here.”

“Trapped.”

Crowley threw back his heavily-embroidered blanket, fluffing his pillows. “Can’t teleport too far all in one go. And once I’m out in the desert, I lose all sense of direction. And like I said, Hell’s not a good place to be right now.”

“So you’re biding your time as the servant of a desert-dwelling matriarch who might kill you if you decided to put on trousers.”

“Well, what else would you suggest I do?”

Aziraphale drew a breath. “We could leave together? Your power, my power... If we were in physical contact we could teleport much further.”

Crowley tossed a fur blanket over the fat and tidy bed, giving Aziraphale a dull glare. “And where would we go, pray? What would we do?”

Aziraphale began to smile. “They’ve invented spicy yak yoghurt in Tibet. I’ve been meaning to try it. I think you’d like it.”

Crowley pursed his lips, tipping his head. “I might.”

“What do you say?” Aziraphale held out his hand. “Shall we be off now?”

“Now? Before I’ve slept? Ssskhh!”

“Slept— Crowley, you’re a demon, you don’t sleep.”

“You should try a bit of sloth now and again, angel,” Crowley said, crawling onto his bed, lying with his back to the almost-empty tent. “You’ve got gluttony down-pat, but try branching out now and again, why don’t you?”

“Maybe you should try a little _modesty_,” Aziraphale uttered. “I can see your whole legs from here.”

“Good legs, though.”

“Well, yes, alright, but— Crowley!” Aziraphale stood by the bed, looking cross. “What am I to do all night?”

“You think I care?” Crowley shrugged. “Go make people’s wishes come true. Throw a party. Fill the stoning pit with flowers.”

Aziraphale pouted.

Crowley gazed up at him for a while, then began to sigh. “Look,” Crowley said, eyes lowering, “take that dirty robe off and lie down for a few hours. If you don’t sleep, at least you’ll have some time to think.”

“But I don’t have anything on underneath—”

“Not my problem, is it?” Crowley rolled over and faced the tent wall, which _thwupp_ed in a gentle night breeze. “Now, I’m going to _sleep_, Aziraphale. If you have any brain cells in that fuzzy white head of yours, I suggest you use them and do the same.”

Crowley lay in silence, feigning sleep for a while.

Aziraphale did some pacing. He took his sandals off at one point, humming in discomfort as he poured out the sand. Then he paced some more.

He did some huffing, and some sighing, and some nervous fretting.

He went outside for a while, then came back.

Then he gave one slow exhale, and removed his robe.

Crowley didn’t know if he’d conjured up some undergarments, but what he did know was that Aziraphale smelled _damn_ good. Like butterscotch, if butterscotch was a thing yet. And once the angel decided on something, he really did go all in, didn’t he? He curled up against Crowley’s back, hand over his waist, forehead between Crowley’s shoulder blades.

Aziraphale sighed, this time in relief. “This isn’t so bad,” he realised.

Crowley gulped. He fought himself for a while, not sure whether to reply. But he did anyway: he moved one hand to touch Aziraphale’s.

“Goodnight, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley shut his eyes, smiling to himself.

  


··· ◈ ···

  


The lantern in the tent had gone out by the time Aziraphale woke. He could hear a peculiar low drone in the night’s blueness, a silence that howled and hummed. He supposed that was the sound of the desert winds crossing the bowl of the valley. Snips of sand came pattering across the tent roof, but whispered away and didn’t come again for a few minutes.

Aziraphale kept his arms around the warmth of his friend, nose buried in the fabric on Crowley’s back.

He breathed Crowley’s cinnamon smoke deeply, and flushed all the way down his body with a sensation that felt like raindrops or falling stars. Aziraphale cuddled his companion a bit tighter, smiling, eyes shut in contentment.

It was unusual for an angel’s corporeal form to feel a physical rush in response to emotion, but Aziraphale had been feeling such things for centuries. Maybe it didn’t happen to other angels, because they hadn’t spent so much time on Earth. Or maybe none of them knew what love could do to a body.

Aziraphale watched Crowley for a long while. Watched him breathe, shoulder rising just a touch each time. Aziraphale stroked his fingers through Crowley’s long curls, letting their softness tickle between his fingers.

His fingertips trailed Crowley’s bare, bony shoulder, skimming the cloth knot there. Just out of curiosity, Aziraphale lowered the knot, revealing an inch more of Crowley’s skin. He was smooth, warm, and looked blue in the dense, filtered light of nighttime.

Guiltily, Aziraphale put the strap of his underwear back where he’d found it.

This wasn’t lust, he was sure of that. Nor was it love, love, love, of the definite romantic kind, but it was something. It was something precious and darling and Aziraphale enjoyed feeling it. He knew it was nothing but _sinful_ that these sorts of feelings were caused only by a demon, but at this point, he knew it couldn’t be helped. Crowley was too special to him.

“How did it feel, Crowley?” Aziraphale whispered, desperately. He expected no answer, but he had to ask. He shut his eyes and rested his forehead on Crowley’s back. “How did it feel?”

Crowley drew a deep breath, chest swelling under Aziraphale’s arms. “Hmm.”

Aziraphale tingled. “Are you awake?”

“No.” Crowley rolled over, eyes closed, looking annoyed. He faced Aziraphale, snuggling close, one arm draped lazily over the angel’s neck. Crowley relaxed again, exhaling onto the pillow they shared.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed, eyes helplessly drawn to Crowley’s thin lips. Hot air tangled between them.

Crowley peeked open his eyes, yellow slits almost glowing between his lashes. He and Aziraphale were inches apart, eyes meeting.

Aziraphale felt scared. But he didn’t want to pull away.

They stared at each other for a number of seconds. Hearts racing. Hands tense on each other. Bodies close enough to feel each leg pressed to leg, chest to chest.

They’d both stopped breathing.

Aziraphale shut his eyes and moaned as he sank in for a kiss.

Crowley pushed closer, mouth open, hand in Aziraphale’s hair, holding him tight. He purred, head tilted into the pillow, chin nudging towards his friend’s.

They breathed hard, and sucked each other’s lips, tasted each other’s tongue, mouths wide open; Crowley groaned under his breath, bare leg shifting against Aziraphale’s, ruffling both their leg hair.

Aziraphale smiled, and relaxed away – but Crowley rolled atop him, hands in Aziraphale’s hair, legs open around his waist; he smooched and bit and took more of what he wanted, locks of his hair drifting around their faces, purple in the light. “Angel,” he groaned, head tilted, lips dragging on Aziraphale’s mouth. “Mmm.”

Aziraphale squeaked, a hand on Crowley’s waist, patting, patting urgently.

Crowley broke the kiss with a big breath, a sharp grin on his face.

“No,” Aziraphale said firmly.

Crowley’s grin fell. “What?”

“No.” Aziraphale looked upset. “No more. I can’t take any more, Crowley.”

Unsure, Crowley rolled off him, gently pulling his undergarment down to cover himself. Aziraphale got to his feet, flinging the loosened end of his own short under-robe over his shoulder so it didn’t drag. He took a breath to impart something, but his face clouded with hurt, and he left without a word.

“Angel?” Crowley sat up more, hands pushed into the bed. “Angel... Wait— Wait! Come back!”

He gathered himself up, then got up and ran out in bare feet. A wind had picked up, and sand lashed at Crowley’s cheeks and arms and legs. He shielded his eyes, squinting into the fritzing mess. “Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale was but a pallid blur halfway across the oasis. Crowley hastened towards him, but the sand started to whip down like hail, stinging flesh. Crowley hissed in distress, stumbling over a shrub, stepping on rocks. “Angel—”

He darted here and there, finding a path. The distance between himself and Aziraphale narrowed, but then Crowley’s foot caught a ragged root and he fell to his knees – and when he looked up, the world was fully arush with a sandstorm, filling his ears with shards, blinding him. He curled up, shown no mercy by the storm. “Angeeelll,” he moaned, prostrate to Mother Nature, to God, the Devil, to the howling, rabid night.

He was going to discorporate here, once his skin was flayed to nothing and his eyes were stung away. Maybe that would be fine. Even demons were subject to pangs of gluttony, never knowing when to stop. That grand test wasn’t just for humans, Crowley sometimes thought. He definitely thought it now. He’d made a mistake and this was the way he had to pay for it. He had to suffer.

“Angel,” he whispered, face-down in the dirt, as his back started to burn.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Has anyone ever told you you’re really quite pathetic sometimes?” Aziraphale asked.

“Angel—”

The sand stopped. The night turned clear. Crowley inhaled mountain air.

A Tibetian yak looked at them from its hay pile, munching in the moonlight.

Aziraphale let go of Crowley’s shoulder, and Crowley toppled into cool grass, breathing out in relief. He pulled his long hair to fall down his left shoulder, looking at his right. Raw skin healed over, but it still seemed to whistle inside. His ears felt weird.

Once Crowley got to his feet, Aziraphale stood some distance off, dressed in his full robe, a white shape glowing before a plunging grassy hillscape. There was a small moonlit village down there, Crowley looked at it as he stood at Aziraphale’s side.

“You’re welcome,” Aziraphale murmured under his breath.

Crowley pursed his lips. “Makes it sound like you did me a favour.”

Aziraphale looked at him sharply, about to start an argument, but then saw the pain in Crowley’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said. “Angel, I’m – _so_ sorry.”

If Aziraphale had had his wings out, his feathers would’ve ruffled indignantly. “About what, exactly?”

“About—”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Crowley, nothing happened, do you remember anything? No. So that’s that.”

Crowley gulped. He tried to smile but couldn’t. “I never meant to rush you.”

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale looked out into the hills, drawing a breath. He was quiet for a while. Then he admitted, in a hurt whine, “I’m not _ready_ for all that, Crowley. I can’t. It’s too soon, it’s too _much_, I don’t know how else to say it—”

“Shhhh.” Crowley touched Aziraphale’s hand with the back of his own. “It’s all right, angel. It’s okay.”

“But I wanted— Please don’t think I didn’t _want_ to—”

Crowley looked at him gently. “I’ll wait.”

“But, Crowley, what if— A hundred years— What if I’m still not ready...?”

Crowley closed the distance between them, touching Aziraphale’s soft cheek. He smiled sadly, gently. “I’ll wait.”

“Crowley...”

Crowley shut his eyes and kissed Aziraphale’s nose. “I’ve waited nearly six thousand years for you, angel. I can wait a little longer.”

Aziraphale seemed to sink in a distressed sort of relief.

“You’re welcome,” Crowley whispered. He touched Aziraphale’s shoulder – and then he was gone.

Aziraphale searched through the night, but Crowley had left, teleporting away alone.

  


··· ◈ ···

  


They didn’t meet again for over a hundred years.

Apparently Crowley had slept through a whole century without really noticing.

And maybe that was the point.

  


··· ◈ ···

  


**ENGLAND, 2019**

  


“We never did get to try spicy yak yoghurt,” Aziraphale realised, sitting in the passenger seat of the Bentley as they rushed through Croydon, heading nowhere in particular. He looked down into the tub of fro-yo he was eating with a tiny pink plastic spoon. “Gosh, that slipped my mind for a good two hundred years.”

Crowley smiled. “Think they still make it?”

Aziraphale conjured up two first-class plane tickets to Tibet. “We could go and find out?”

Crowley gave a snakish grin, eyes wrinkling behind his sunglasses.

  


··· ◈ ···

  


They sat on a hillside, overlooking a petite village, where the mountains faded to mist. The view looked much the same as it had a few centuries earlier, but a lot less dark, as it was now bathed in sunshine. Tinks of a blacksmith’s hammer echoed up from below, and a distant yak bellowed, its cowbell tonking as it ambled along.

Crowley and Aziraphale rested on the same hill peak they’d once parted ways, sharing a spicy yak yoghurt, their thighs pressed together, bare feet sinking into the cool grass. As averse as Aziraphale was to sand between his toes, he was rather fond of grass in the same places.

“You know what would make this better?” Aziraphale said, in the tone of someone who’d just had a bright idea.

“Mm? What?” Crowley asked, licking his spoon.

Aziraphale braced himself. Then he relaxed, smiled, and leaned close to kiss Crowley on the lips. Just once. Smooch! Done.

Crowley looked back, astounded.

Aziraphale beamed. He sat back and dug out another spoonful of yoghurt.

“Oh,” Crowley said warmly. He examined his spoon. “Right.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said.

“F... For what, exactly?”

“For waiting.”

Crowley smiled at his best friend, a smile that went all the way down to the darkest, deepest, most devilish parts of him, and tickled. “Worth the wait.”

“Yes, it is pretty good, isn’t it?” Aziraphale remarked upon the yoghurt.

Crowley kept on gazing at him. “Pretty damned good.”

Aziraphale caught his eye. He shuffled a little closer, and Crowley moved to hang an arm over his shoulders.

Azirpahale nodded. “Pretty damned good.”

  


**{ the end }**

**Author's Note:**

> ☆ [reblog art](https://almaasi.tumblr.com/post/187568309835/but-crowley-what-if-a-hundred-years-what-if)  
☆ [reblog fic](https://almaasi.tumblr.com/post/187567985210/this-desert-rose)
> 
> [Here's my other Crowley/Aziraphale works!!](https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=revised_at&include_work_search%5Brelationship_ids%5D%5B%5D=575567&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bcrossover%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_from%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_to%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_from%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_to%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&user_id=almaasi) More are on their way. ♥
> 
> Click through and [subscribe on ****THIS OTHER PAGE****](https://archiveofourown.org/users/almaasi/) (not this current page!! nuu) to get emails when I post new fics~ (There will also be Destiel. Just so's you know.)
> 
> Thank you for reading!  
Love, Elmie x


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